


and since we've no place to go

by sunshineinthestorm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas fic, F/M, Fluff, well fluff and a little bit of angry flirtatious shouting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5450144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshineinthestorm/pseuds/sunshineinthestorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This wasn't supposed to happen. The whole pack was supposed to be here at this little house in the middle of nowhere that Chris Argent had told them about, celebrating the defeat of the dread doctors and Theo vanishing off the face of the earth and the fact that they had actually survived past Christmas and Lydia had just gotten her acceptance letter from Stanford. But Stiles had driven up with Lydia a day early because his jeep was still unreliable and she wanted to make sure there were enough beds and hot chocolate for everyone, and then, that night, a blizzard blew in from the mountains and buried them in snow."</p>
            </blockquote>





	and since we've no place to go

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of being a week from Christmas and right in the middle of the holiday season! madgesgoldpin on tumblr was the person who requested this fic.

This wasn't supposed to happen. The whole pack was supposed to be here at this little house in the middle of nowhere that Chris Argent had told them about, celebrating the defeat of the dread doctors and Theo vanishing off the face of the earth and the fact that they had actually survived past Christmas and Lydia had just gotten her acceptance letter from Stanford. But Stiles had driven up with Lydia a day early because his jeep was still unreliable and she wanted to make sure there were enough beds and hot chocolate for everyone, and then, that night, a blizzard blew in from the mountains and buried them in snow. 

"How could this even happen?" Stiles demands the next morning, as they stand in front of the kitchen window and stare at the white mass blocking their view. "This is fucking  _California_."

" _Northern_  California, Stiles," Lydia says, rolling her eyes. "It snows here."

He makes a face at her and then sighs. "Well, so much for getting the whole pack together. I highly doubt any of them are going to drive in this kind of weather. Looks like it's just going to be the two of us for a while." The words fly out of his mouth, and Stiles's eyes widen, and then he quickly ducks away and Lydia sees something like a flush creep up the back of his neck for the first time she can remember since he met Malia. 

But she knows they're strictly friends now — he made that abundantly clear when he started dating a werecoyote — so she just clears her throat and says, "Well, that just means we'll have more hot chocolate for ourselves. It's not the end of the world."

* * *

Three days later, Stiles isn't so sure. "But Lydia, what if they  _did_  try to drive up here and they got caught in the blizzard? Lydia, what if Scott is dead right now and I'm just sitting here roasting marshmallows in the fireplace and eating s'mores like everything's fine?"

Lydia turns the graham cracker package in her hands, frowning. "Are these expired?" she wonders aloud. "Because that would explain a lot about your recent behavior."

"We don't have cell service out here!" he says, waving his poker around with the marshmallow still attached. Lydia really hopes it won't fly off and make a gooey mess on the carpet. "No one would be able to tell us if someone died! Lydia, I could be missing Scott's funeral right now."

"He's not dead, Stiles."

"How could you know that?"

"I'm a banshee, remember?"

"Oh. Right." He deflates a little, smashing the marshmallow onto a graham cracker and sliding it off the poker using a hunk of chocolate. "I guess I panicked a little."

"Cabin fever," she nods. "Happens to everyone."

"Not to you," he observes, but it's through a mouth full of s'more, so it comes out more like "Num too."

"I'm just special," she says quickly. She doesn't want him to think she isn't experiencing cabin fever because she actually  _enjoys_  being cooped up in this house with him. That would be ridiculous. 

But then he sticks his thumb inside his mouth, sucks the leftover marshmallow off of it, looks her straight in the eyes, and says in a too-casual tone, "Yeah, you are," and suddenly Lydia isn't sure if they're completely platonic after all. 

* * *

"Come on, Lydia," Stiles whines, shrugging on his jacket. "We haven't left this house in six days because of the blizzard. Don't you want to go outside?"

She frowns. "It's cold."

He makes this face of utter disbelief — chin tilted forward, eyes squinted, mouth slightly open — that makes Lydia want to kiss him. But she doesn’t. She's gotten really good at self-restraint in the last year. "It's winter, Lydia. Of course it's cold."

"But I didn't pack for this kind of cold," she says, crossing her arms. "I packed for fifty degree days and nights that never dip below freezing. That's what the forecast called for."

"You're the one who said, 'It's northern California, Stiles. It snows here.'"

She narrows her eyes at him and the stupid self-satisfied smirk on his face. "I said it snows here. I didn't say it was _supposed_ to snow here."

"You're just making excuses." He picks up his hat and gloves, looks at them for a split-second, and then hands them to her. "Look, if you really didn't pack for this, you can wear some of my stuff."

She holds up one of his gloves and raises her eyebrows. "You really think I can wear this?" The thing is easily twice the size of her hand.

"Okay, maybe not. But you can wear the hat. And my scarf. And I think I have another jacket upstairs."

The hat is a horrible, hideous, striped knit Mets cap. Lydia thinks about reminding him that orange and blue aren't a good combination.

Instead, she just huffs out a breath and puts the hat on.

* * *

After that, Lydia pretty much stops wearing her own clothes altogether. Stealing his warm sweatpants becomes much more appealing than enduring bare legs and short skirts, even if she does have to roll the waistband about a dozen times. (The first time she walks into the kitchen with them on, one pointed glare keeps him from laughing at her.) And the Mets cap pretty much becomes a permanent fixture on her head.

It's one of these days when Lydia is bundled up in Stiles's clothes, sitting on the kitchen counter while he cooks, that he starts panicking again. "How come nobody's showed up by now?" he asks, stirring chicken noodle soup on the stove. "It's been ten days. It hasn't snowed in at least five. The roads should be clear." He lifts the spoon and pokes it in her direction accusingly, ignoring the soup that drips onto the floor. "Are you sure they're not dead?"

She rolls her eyes and tugs her — _his_ — cap lower on her ears. "Yes. Maybe the roads aren't cleared yet. Or maybe they don't want to make a three-hour drive without knowing if they're clear yet. Or maybe they decided it wasn't worth it when there are only like three days left until Christmas."

"Or maybe—wait, three days? Really?"

She nods.

"Damn. I didn't even notice." He blinks and then says, "Anyway. What if the blizzard was just a symptom of a larger problem? What if freak weather patterns are overtaking the world as we speak? We could be living through the _apocalypse_ , Lydia."

She sighs and crosses her legs primly despite the sweatpants. "You're the one who said the roads were probably clear by now."

"Oh. Right." He turns back to the soup. "Probably not the apocalypse, then."

He's not looking at her. Maybe that's what gives Lydia the courage to tilt her head to the side and ask, "But if you really think the roads are clear, then why haven't you suggested trying to go home?"

He stiffens. The spoon slides out of his hand and into the soup with a splash. "Why haven't _you_?"

"I—"

And then she stops. Because what is she supposed to say? _I don't actually hate the cold. I like roasting marshmallows in the fireplace with you. I don't want to leave_. It's all the truth, but those aren't things she's ever going to admit to him. Lydia Martin is tired of getting her heart broken.

Eventually, he turns around. "Well?"

She swallows and picks the only thing she thinks she can say. "I won't be able to steal your clothes after we get back."

He gives her another one of those looks of utter disbelief. "Is that it? You can keep the Mets cap if you want it that badly."

"No, I can't," she says like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Why not?"

"Because everything's going to be the same again after we go home," she retorts. "This isn't going to last. You're going to go back to your board, and your dad, and Malia, and I'm not going to be allowed to wear your Mets cap anymore."

"What does Malia have to do with anything?" The tiniest crease starts to form between his eyebrows. "We haven't been dating for months."

"She still lives in your house!"

He matches her growing frustration and rising volume. "Well, I'm not going to kick her out! It's not a big deal! Her room is on the other end of the hall!"

"That's a hell of a lot closer than I am!"

"I… what?"

"Oh, don't play games, Stiles," she snaps. "You know we aren't like we used to be."

"I thought you didn't want what we used to be!"

Now it's her turn to say, " _What_?"

"That's why I backed off!"

"What the _fuck_ gave you that idea?" She slides off the counter and marches over to him, her fury making him lean back in spite of their eight-inch height difference. "Why do you think I haven't said we should go home? This is the closest we've been to normal all year, and _I missed you_ , asshole!"

The air is thick with the smell of soup and the weight of her confession. For a while, Stiles just stands there, tilting back on one foot and staring at her in astonishment. Eventually he just gulps and says, "I missed you too."

At that, Lydia lets out something like a strangled laugh. "What the heck were we doing, then?"

"I… I don't actually know." He's looking at her with a thousand questions in his eyes, lips unbearably close to her own, and finally, suddenly, Lydia's iron-strong self-restraint crumbles.

"Is there, um…" She presses her lips together. She knows that at this moment, she still has time to revert to her perfect hair and short skirts and bare legs. But she's starting to think these sweatpants actually fit her surprisingly well, so instead she raises herself onto her toes and asks, "Is there any chance you're still in love with me?"

It's a good thing they're in the middle of the holidays because Stiles's eyes light up like a fucking Christmas tree. "Um, yeah. A really good chance. Like, I'm still extremely in love with you."

"Thank God." And finally, finally, _finally_ , she kisses him.

When she pulls away, he's just kind of gaping at her. "So does this mean…"

"Yes," she says clearly. "I am possibly, definitely, extremely in love with you too."

He grins. "Okay, good. Because, you know, if this really is the apocalypse, we might be the only survivors, and then we'll have to repopulate the earth—"

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

And for maybe the first time in his life, he does. After all, he has better things to do with his mouth.


End file.
